Boy Soldier (9 page)

The bus journey passed in silence, both Fergus and Danny deep in their own thoughts.

But when they arrived in Southend, Fergus surprised Danny by leading him straight to another bus. 'Too many CCTVs here,' he said as they took their seats at the back, out of earshot of the few other passengers on board. 'We'll pick up a train somewhere quieter.'

'You do what you want,' said Danny as the bus drew away. 'The only train I'm getting is the one back to London.'

Fergus spoke quietly. 'You still don't get it, do you, Danny? You can't go anywhere without me any more. You know the truth, even if you don't believe it yet. And if he catches you now, he'll kill you.'

'Who? Who will?'

'George Fincham, the man you said you'd seen before.'

'But . . . but how do you know him?'

'Because George Fincham was the desk officer in Bogota. George Fincham was the traitor,
he
was the one giving the information to FARC. You think he'll let either of us live, when we know that?'

Danny looked stunned. 'You are unbelievable. You've been sitting there inventing all this stuff because I don't believe a word you say. The guy was at my army RCB: he was the one who told me about you.'

'Yeah, and I bet he was the one who gave you the idea of finding me. They've been tailing you – how else did they turn up at the cottage?'

The bus lurched to one side as the driver swerved to avoid a cyclist. 'Bloody bikes,' yelled the driver. 'Ought to be banned from the road.' There were a few murmurs of agreement from the front of the bus.

'I met Fincham too,' said Fergus quietly. 'At an embassy do, long before I was recruited as a K. I thought he was a clever, cunning bastard then. And he was; clever enough to find out that I had been recruited, even though it was meant to be classified. Face it, Danny, he set you up, and you fell for it.'

'Even if he did set me up, that doesn't mean he was the traitor,' said Danny. 'Why should I believe you?'

'Because it's the truth.'

Danny sneered. 'You wouldn't know the truth if it came up and punched you in the mouth.' But he was no longer quite as certain as he sounded. George Fincham – if that really was his name –
had
planted the idea of finding Fergus; Danny
had
sensed he was being followed; and the cottage
had
been raided.

Fergus knew there was more than just the question of truth or lies standing between the two of them. There was also their history, or their lack of a history. They had to talk it through. 'Look, I understand the way you feel about me, Danny. I was a total disaster as a dad, and I've been no better as a granddad.'

'I stopped worrying about that a long time ago.'

'You really expect me to believe that?'

'Yeah,' answered Danny angrily, 'like you expect me to believe everything
you
say!' He looked away. 'Why? Why did you leave my dad?'

Fergus took a deep breath. He was a loner, a man who'd spent a lifetime keeping his feelings and emotions in check. A man who'd avoided justifying many of his actions even to himself, let alone to the grandson he'd only just met. 'I was eighteen when I got married. Your dad was on the way, so we had to – that's what happened in those days. But I was too young, just a kid. I wanted to be off soldiering with my mates. So I left. I'm not proud of it, but that's what I did. After I left, it was the odd visit, and later on the occasional letter.'

Danny stared out through the window as the bus ploughed through the suburbs of Southend and his grandfather continued with his halting, hesitant confession. 'I got this letter from your dad, first one for a long time. I was in Malaysia, up in the north. He told me that he was getting married and that your grandmother had died of cancer. I was . . . I was sorry about it, of course I was, but . . . it was like another life. There didn't seem any point in coming back for the wedding.'

'But he was your son.'

'Yeah, and he must have hated me.'

Danny turned back from the window and glared at his grandfather. 'Don't expect me to feel sorry for you! You always had a choice in all this; I never did.' He fumbled in his jacket pocket for the old photograph he'd been carrying around for days and handed it to Fergus. 'And he didn't hate you. He always kept that.'

Fergus was still looking at the photograph when he spoke again. 'I didn't even know he had it. I was in Colombia when I got news of the car crash. The funeral had already happened. It was too late to say I wish it could have been different.'

They were silent for a few moments as Fergus stared at the old photograph. He turned it over and saw the numbers written there. 'My last four.' He looked at Danny. 'That's how you knew.'

Danny said nothing as Fergus handed back the photograph.

They got off the bus at a place called Westcliff. To Danny it seemed just an extension of Southend. A bit quieter, more old fashioned. There were a lot of old people out for their early morning stroll along what was exotically named the Boulevard. Most seemed to be wandering aimlessly, stopping every now and then to gaze into the same shop windows they'd probably gazed into a thousand times before.

It was the perfect place to do a runner. Fergus couldn't have stopped Danny, not with his limp and not without stirring one of Westcliff's finest into calling the police.

But Danny didn't run. 'Can I have my mobile?' he asked as they walked slowly away from the bus stop.

'You know you can't,' answered Fergus without looking at him.

'Don't worry,' said Danny. 'I'm not planning on calling Fincham. I have to let Elena know what's happening.'

Fergus stopped walking. 'Who the hell is Elena?'

'She's my friend, at Foxcroft. She helped me find you.'

'Oh, terrific. And who else knows about this?'

'No one. Just Elena. And I trust Elena a lot more than I trust you.'

Fergus reached into a pocket and took out the phone. 'Is this pay as you go?'

'Course it is, I can't afford a contract phone. I'm an orphan, remember?'

'Don't make any calls, just check your messages,' said Fergus, handing Danny the phone. 'If
you
can find a way of locating phones, I'm sure Fincham can. But we'll be well away from here long before it's any good to him.'

Danny switched on the mobile. He had five new voicemails and three texts. 'They'll all be from Elena.'

'Just check the texts, the voicemails will take too long.'

Danny checked the first text and Fergus read it with him:

Wher r u & y dont u ans fone. Its v 18. Im worried

'Stupid bloody language,' said Fergus as he worked out what the message meant.

The second text read:

Danny!!! Wots going on?? DTR asking questions. Please call!!!

'What's DTR mean?' asked Fergus.

'It stands for Dave the Rave, the bloke who runs Foxcroft. He's all right.'

The final text had been sent at nine o'clock that morning.

Something bad must hve hapened 2 u. If i dnt hear in nxt hour im telling dave wots bin going on. I must so please please call.

Fergus looked at his watch. It was nine forty-two. 'She sounds a bit flaky.'

'Flaky?' said Danny angrily. 'Elena's not flaky, she's worried about me. A lot more worried than you've ever been.'

'Yeah, all right, enough,' snapped Fergus. 'You've done the hurt grandson bit and I've got the message. But what I am worried about now is keeping us both alive.'

'Us? You keep saying
us
. Nothing's gonna happen to me. I'm out of this. You do what you like, I'm going back to London.'

'I can't let you do that.'

Danny laughed. 'How you gonna stop me? Tie me up? Shoot me? Fill me with cocaine?'

Their raised voices were beginning to attract the attention of Westcliff's strolling pensioners and Fergus decided to take a different line. 'All right. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe once Fincham knows you're back home and I'm nowhere around he'll question you and then leave you alone.'

'He will. And . . . and I won't tell him anything. I'm not saying I believe what you've told me, but . . .'

Fergus nodded. He had absolutely no intention of letting Danny walk into danger. For the moment, he was buying time. 'Tell you what, I'll come with you. Just to see you safely back.'

'There's no need.'

'Probably not, but let me anyway. Then I'll get out of your life. Send your friend one text. Tell her not to worry and that you'll be back in about three hours. And tell her—'

'Yeah, I know,' interrupted Danny. 'Tell her not to make any more calls or send texts to this phone.' He switched on the phone and punched in his text, knowing that Elena would be furious at getting such a brief message.

When Danny had finished, Fergus took the phone and removed the simcard. 'I'll get you another one later. But now I'm going to buy you some new clothes.'

'What?'

'You want to look your best when you get back, don't you?

They obviously had very different ideas on what constituted 'looking your best'.

On the main shopping drag Fergus found a charity shop, and after checking there was no CCTV installed, led Danny inside. He went straight to the racks of clothes.

'See anything you fancy?'

'I'm not wearing these rejects.'

Fergus grabbed an anorak from the clothes rail and thrust it into Danny's hands. 'Do this for me, Danny. I don't want you picked up outside Foxcroft. You were followed all day yesterday, so they know what you were wearing. So choose some gear and let's get out of here.'

Five minutes later they left the shop with a carrier bag full of clothes. 'We can change on the train,' said Fergus, who was already wearing a newly purchased flat cap.

'You look a right dickhead in that,' said Danny as they walked down to the small station.

'Maybe,' answered Fergus. 'But that's the idea. Mr Average, the bloke no one ever gives a second glance.'

Danny went onto the platform and waited while Fergus got tickets from the machine outside. He insisted they stay third party aware so they began the forty-five-minute journey into Fenchurch Street Station in separate carriages. The early morning commuter scramble was over and when Fergus thought it was safe, he moved into Danny's carriage.

Danny had put on his newly acquired bomber jacket and baseball cap. And he'd been thinking. 'I'm still not saying I believe you, but . . . if you were set up, why haven't you tried to clear your name?'

'Like I told you, "deniable operator" means just that: you get caught and you're on your own. Once I was captured, the story of me being a traitor was perfect for the Firm. But when I escaped I became a potential embarrassment, to the Firm and the government, and they don't like loose ends. But it's worked out perfectly for Fincham; he'll have full backing to get rid of me and he'll be covering his own arse at the same time.'

'But isn't there anyone else who knew you were a K. Anyone outside the Firm?'

Fergus shrugged. 'My old CO, Colonel Meacher – he had to sanction the move and—'

'I met him,' said Danny quickly. 'At the Victory Club. We could find him and he could clear you.'

'He hasn't up until now.'

'But he's out of the army now. If we went to him and told—'

'Look, Danny,' said Fergus, 'I appreciate what you're saying, but I'm not up to it any more. I'm fifty-three, I can't walk properly and I came back to England to keep my head down and stay out of trouble.'

'Yeah, well, you've lost that option now,' answered Danny angrily. 'And what's wrong with you? I read the stories. You were a hero in Ireland, and in the Gulf. You got medals. Now you reckon you're not up to it. Don't you want to live?'

Fergus smiled. 'Yeah, I want to live. And I thought you didn't believe me . . .'

The train was starting to slow as it began the approach into Fenchurch Street and Danny glanced out at the grimy city buildings. He spoke quietly. 'I don't. And maybe you're not up to it, but I am.'

Mick and Fran had drawn the short straw. They were on surveillance outside Foxcroft but as far as they could see there was no way Danny would return. Fergus Watts was far too experienced to allow that.

But they had to be there, just in case. Resources were stretched. Jimmy and Brian were with Marcie Deveraux, preparing for the CTR on Eddie Moyes's flat. George Fincham had chosen not to bring in extra manpower on this job. And if the governor had his reasons for keeping this one to his chosen few, that was fine by them. It was a compliment.

The lack of sufficient manpower on the surveillance meant they were using technology to plug the gaps. Earlier, Mick had parked a white Transit van on the corner of a side road close to Foxcroft.

The back of the van faced the building, and in one of the rear doors were several tiny holes, so small they were invisible to the naked eye. Fibre optic cables ran from the holes into a sophisticated camera system with face-recognition software, rigged inside the battered van. The ends of the fibre optics were trained towards Foxcroft, and Danny's image had been loaded into the system.

A single click of recognition would be enough to alert Mick
and Fran, who were in the blue Golf, cruising the area. Staying close, but
not too close to alert any inquisitive third party. But if Danny was pinged
inside, or coming out of Foxcroft, they could be there in seconds.

Fergus tried everything he could to persuade Danny not to go back to Foxcroft. He asked, argued, bullied and almost begged, but by the time they were half a mile from the building he knew it was pointless.

Danny was adamant. He had to go back. He had to explain the situation to Elena. He had to straighten things out with Dave the Rave.

And he had a plan. He would tell Dave he was going to stay with a mate while they looked for jobs. It made sense, he said, as he had to leave Foxcroft soon anyway.

And with Dave squared it meant they could go off and track down Colonel Meacher.

It all sounded so easy. To Danny. Daylight, and the thought of clearing his grandfather's name, had driven away the horrors of his experience in the escape tunnel.

Fergus would have agreed to anything at that stage. All he wanted to do was get Danny in and out of Foxcroft and away. He had always had contingency plans for his cover being blown, but his grandson had never figured in his thinking. Until now.

And as for Danny's own plan? It was crazy. It was stupid. But maybe. Just maybe . . .

They were in a street that ran parallel to the rear of the building, less than five hundred metres away from Foxcroft. Fergus had let Danny make a quick call to Elena from a public call box. By now she should be waiting by the back garden gate, ready to unlock it.

'Be as natural as you can but keep that cap pulled down over your eyes,' said Fergus. 'And when you're inside stay away from the windows. You got that?'

'You've told me three times.'

'Have you got it?'

'Yes!'

'And you leave by the back gate too. I'll be around, never far away and we meet here again in forty-five minutes.'

Danny nodded.

'We need to fix the ERV.'

'The what?'

'The emergency rendezvous, in case either of us runs into a problem. Somewhere public we can both find easily and not too far away.'

Danny shrugged. 'Burger King at London Bridge Station?'

'Fine. Let's move and I'll tell you what to do if you need to use the ERV.'

A few minutes later Danny knocked once on the wooden gate at the back of Foxcroft. Two heavy bolts slid back and the gate creaked open.

As soon as Elena saw Danny she laughed. 'What
are
you wearing?'

Danny didn't have time to discuss his second-hand bomber jacket
and faded baseball cap. He pushed past his friend, shut the gate and slid
back the bolts. 'Never mind that now, just listen to me before I go to see
to Dave. My granddad was set up, he wasn't a traitor.'

The flat cap Fergus wore was pulled low; beneath the cap his keen eyes were scanning the surroundings, taking in parked and moving vehicles and pedestrians. He had moved to the front of the building and was about fifty metres away.

A teenager wearing a Walkman passed by. Fergus heard the distorted thump of a bass drum and the tinny rattle of the snare. Three giggling girls, arm in arm, approached from the opposite direction, and one of them made some sort of comment as they passed Walkman Boy. He either ignored it or didn't hear, but it made the girls' day as they burst out laughing.

On the opposite pavement two young mums were deep in conversation as they struggled along with pushchairs weighed down with their offspring and fully loaded supermarket carrier bags.

It all looked perfectly normal. Everyday. But Fergus was looking beyond the everyday, searching for the slightest sign that Fincham's team had surveillance on Foxcroft. While Danny was inside the building and in potential danger, Fergus had to be the eyes and ears out on the street.

He checked the parked vehicles, looking to see if any were occupied or had steamed-up windows. That might only mean that a thoughtless dog owner had left little Rover without enough air, but it could also mean a tired operator on surveillance had got careless. But there was no sign of anything unusual.

Further down the street, parked on the corner of a side road, Fergus noticed a white Transit van. Blacked-out rear windows would be an obvious sign of danger, but the rear doors were windowless. The vehicle still had to be checked out. He would do a walk-by and try to see inside through the windscreen.

First, though, he wanted to look at the buildings and windows
on either side of the road. Eyes trained on Foxcroft might not only be human
eyes.

Danny was getting a bollocking. And when Dave the Rave gave a bollocking, all the unfortunate person on the receiving end could do was sit back and take it. Dave was barely pausing for breath as words like
irresponsible, immature, inconsiderate, thoughtless
and
selfish
were strung together in a stream of wounding sentences.

They were in the small first-floor office at the front of the house. The door was closed because what Dave had to say was for Danny's ears only.

Danny explained that he'd met an old mate and had gone back to his place. They'd been so engrossed in catching up and making plans, he'd completely forgotten to phone to say he was staying the night.

Dave swallowed the story and was all in favour of Danny going off to search for a job. But he still wanted to have his say. 'While you live under this roof, you let us know what's going on. You don't stay out all night without even a phone call. Jane and me have got better things to do than worry about selfish, inconsiderate, brainless idiots who only think of themselves.'

Brainless.
That was a new one.

'I really am sorry, Dave. I know I should have called – I will in future.'

'Future? You're lucky to have a future after what you got up to last night!'

Danny shuddered as he thought back to the previous night. Dave had no idea how close to the truth he was. But fortunately for Danny, the volcanic eruption of fury was beginning to subside, just as it always did.

'Danny, you are certain about giving up your A levels?'

'I've got a week or so to decide,' said Danny with a shrug. 'It can't hurt to see what jobs are around.'

'We'll miss you if you go.'

'And I'll miss this place, and you and Jane. You've done a lot for me.'

Dave was getting embarrassed. Bollockings he could handle, but compliments and gratitude were another matter. 'Go on, get out. We'll keep your room for a couple more weeks.'

Danny stood up to leave, forgetting his grandfather's order
to stay away from the windows. He looked outside, trying to see if Fergus
was nearby. It was a big mistake.

The fibre optics picked up the movement and in less than a second the camera system inside the Transit van clicked and immediately sent a signal of recognition to the blue Golf. Fran and Mick exchanged a look. 'Bingo,' snarled Mick. He dropped a gear and accelerated towards Foxcroft.

Fergus saw Danny move away from the window just before he spotted a blue Golf speeding down the road. It was caked in mud and Fergus instantly realized it was one of the cars that had been at the cottage. The vehicle was two up and he saw the woman in the passenger seat glance at Foxcroft. He knew they'd pinged Danny.

He moved quickly towards the house, no longer bothering about trying to hide his limp. He had to get Danny out, and fast. But then he saw the Golf turn left where the Transit was parked and come to a halt further down the road. The tailgate sprang open. It could only mean one thing. Fergus changed direction: he had to stop the operators from removing what was in the back of the car. There was no time to think, he just had to
do.

The two operators' faces were set as they went to the back of the Golf and leaned in to grab their ready bags. The prearranged plan was simple: they would carry the bags containing their MP5s into Foxcroft and kill Danny. And Fergus, if he was there. And they had no reason to believe he wasn't there; he wouldn't have abandoned Danny. A 'drugs deal gone wrong' cover story was ready and waiting for the tabloids. It wouldn't be the first time Fran and Mick had been part of an operation such as this in broad daylight.

But they had given Fergus a chance. There was no way he could fight it out with them on the street. But in the next few seconds, while they were bent over with their heads and backs inside the car, he had one opportunity to use his own personal SAS mode – Speed, Aggression and Surprise.

His injured leg was almost giving way as he lurched towards the rear of the Golf. A couple more seconds and the two operators would have been clear, but as they grasped their bags, Fergus took his full weight on his good leg and leaped into the air. His arms and body arched over the tailgate and brought it crashing down.

There were yells of pain and shock. Mick dropped the car keys on the ground and Fran screamed in agony as her shoulders and neck took much of the force. Fergus felt his leg buckle as he landed. But he made himself to stay upright, lifted off the tailgate and slammed it down again and again on his two victims.

The muffled screams coming from the vehicle were a mixture of agony and anger. Shouting furiously, Mick tried to reach back to the pistol he had on his jeans belt. But Fergus saw the movement and, grasping the tailgate for support, kicked him between the legs with his right foot. There was an anguished yell and Mick temporarily forgot all about the pistol.

Fergus slammed the tailgate down once more, picked up the car keys and staggered round to sit in the driver's seat. He heard Mick and Fran moan as he slid the key into the ignition. The engine revved and Fergus shoved the car into reverse. It jerked backwards and Fergus stood on the brakes. The tailgate flew open and Mick and Fran were thrown out onto the road.

The Golf's gearbox crunched in protest as Fergus struggled to locate first gear. Fran had blood running down her face but managed to get to her knees and go for the pistol in her belt holster as the car sped away. It was too late to fire. Fran cursed and glanced at Mick. He was still curled up on the road, groaning, as blood poured from his mouth and started to form a small puddle on the tarmac.

Fergus steered the car with his left hand and felt under the seat with his right. Nothing there. He tried the door compartment. Still nothing. He reached under the dashboard and found what he was searching for – the car pistol. It was in a holster glued to the underside of the dash.

He swerved right at the first junction, knowing he had to dump the car soon. There would be a tracking device fitted and at least one of the operators he'd left in the road would be on their personal radio by now, calling the drama in.

But they wouldn't go into Foxcroft now, even if they were able to. Their mission had been compromised. Big time.

Fergus took the next left, found a parking space, got out of the car, locked it and walked casually away. He felt calmer, and safer, especially now he had a Sig 9mm semi-automatic pistol tucked into his jeans. There was only one thirteen-round magazine. Better than nothing. A little insurance.

At the next junction was a bus stop. One of the new bendy buses was approaching. Fergus got on, going nowhere in particular. He would take a ride before heading to the ERV.